


To Live Another Day

by EmmaArthur (EchoBleu)



Series: Every Chance We Get [2]
Category: Leverage
Genre: And a couple of ocs - Freeform, Autistic Character, Blind Character, Character Study, Chronic Pain, Disability, Disabled Character, Eliot is a great teacher, Gen, It's basically just Eliot, Self-Defense Classes, What his life is like in this series, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoBleu/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: A glimpse into Eliot's life between the Bank Shot Job and the Stork Job.
Series: Every Chance We Get [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1058099
Comments: 7
Kudos: 84





	To Live Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> It's been way too long since I wrote for this series. I still have a lot of unpublished writing that is sitting around on my computer, so I've decided to post as much as possible of it even if it's out of order and not everything makes sense. Maybe that way I'll start writing again.
> 
> This is set between the Bank Shot Job and the Stork Job, and it deals with Eliot's disability and chronic pain, and what he does with his free time. It basically only has Eliot, but I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> As a reminder, in this series Eliot became blind and otherwise physically disabled sometime pre-series. He's also autistic.

“I need some help here!” Sophie calls as Parker climbs into the ambulance behind Eliot. He scrambles into the cramped space until he's crouching beside Nate, who is lying on the gurney. “Nate needs a hospital.”

“Hospital's risky,” Eliot says. “How bad is it?”

“I'm fine,” Nate says, his speech slightly slurred, at the same time as Sophie exclaims, “He's shot!”

Neither gives Eliot much useful information. “Is the bullet still in?” he asks.

“I don't know!” Sophie says.

Parker leans over Eliot to get a look. “No,” she states. “There's an exit wound.”

“Thank you, Parker. Any of you know how to stitch a wound?” Eliot asks, loudly enough for Hardison to hear from the front of the bus.

“No!” Hardison shouts.

“I've never done it”, Parker says. “Sophie just shook her head,” she adds after a silence.

“Sorry,” Sophie says sheepishly. She's tense and upset, and Eliot can't blame her after the day she's had.

“Dammit,” Eliot murmurs. He makes a belated gesture toward Sophie to show he's not angry with her, just with the situation. “I can't do it, so we have to figure something out. Parker, can you show me?”

Parker guides his hands to Nate's shoulder. Eliot stops her before they touch his skin. “Nate, this is gonna sting, but I need to see it,” he says.

“Okay,” Nate says, a little apprehensively.

“Sophie, can you see if you can find local anesthetic?” Eliot asks to give her something to do. She's panicking, and he needs to concentrate.

“Sure.”

With that out of the way, Eliot carefully prods the entry wound on Nate's shoulder. Nate hisses, but he stay mostly still. Eliot traces over his shoulder to find the exit wound, more ragged but not worryingly so. If he could see, he would have this treated in minutes.

“It's a flesh wound, small caliber,” he says. “You'll be fine, but we need to stitch it up. Now I can walk Parker through it, or we can take our chances with a hospital.”

“Why Parker?” Nate asks.

“She's got steady hands,” Eliot answers, privately adding that Sophie is too rattled and Hardison too likely to faint at the sight of blood.

“I've got the anesthetic,” Sophie says, handing something over to Parker. “And gloves.”

“Do it,” Nate says.

“Parker, you okay with it?”

“I think so,” Parker answers, scooting over until she's crouching over the injury. Eliot gives her his place and sits closer to the front, by Nate's head. It's a tight fit, but they can make it work.

For a while, everything is silent except for Eliot's instructions, Parker concentrating hard on her task. Eliot keeps his fingers close to Nate's wound to be able to check her stitches. Her hands are, in fact, perfectly steady, as if she's picking a lock rather than stitching up her boss. She doesn't seem at all bothered by the blood or by the delicate task. She doesn't hesitate or fumble and cause Nate unnecessary pain, and as far as Eliot can tell, her stitches are perfectly aligned.

“So, pizza boxes, huh?” Nate asks to take his mind off the pain.

“Yeah, I know, you could have done better,” Hardison says.

“No, no.” Nate says. “No, I couldn't have.”

Eliot runs his fingers around the two stitched wounds one more time, checking that they are not doing more than ooze a little blood, and directs Parker through placing the dressings Sophie prepared.

“We're done here,” he says. “We need to switch cars before this one's reported stolen.”

“Sophie, can you take the wheel?” Nate asks. “Hardison should get us plane tickets.”

“Already done, man!” Hardison shouts from the front. “I can drive one-handed!”

“Dammit Hardison,” Eliot groans. “I wish I could drive,” he mutters, ostensibly for himself. “Wouldn't have to put up with you walking disasters.”

“What? I didn't quite hear that!” Hardison shouts.

“I drive just fine,” Nate says, pretending to be offended.

“You're shot,” Eliot tells him sternly, cleaning his hands with with alcohol wipes. He hates the smell, but he needs to wash the blood off and they don't have running water.

“Do you have motion sickness?” Parker asks.

“No, Parker, just a healthy desire to stay alive,” Eliot grumbles.

To counter Eliot's prediction, they make it to the airport and back to Los Angeles with no more injuries, though Nate is exhausted and sluggish by the time they get a ride back to the office.  It's the middle of the night, so Eliot lies him down on a couch and sends the others home.

“You're sure you want to stay?” Sophie asks. “I could watch him.”

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “What will you do if he starts bleeding out?”

“Good point.”

“Don't worry about me, I'll sleep tomorrow. We'll need to take a few days off, though. Nate ain't working with a hole in him.”

Eliot stays with Nate until late in the morning, when he's sure his stitches will hold and Nate isn't bleeding internally. He calls them both a cab, having it drop him last, at his old place.  He drops on his bed for a couple of hours of fitful sleep without bothering to eat lunch, exhausted.

Throughout the a fternoon , Eliot can feel his limp steadily getting worse. The pain that was just an annoyance when he woke up is  bad enough by evening that he only moves from the armchair he's settled in when absolutely necessary.  Leg cramps after a day of doing so little means another flare-up of his spine, and he thanks the heavens that he still has another few days off, that this didn't happen in the middle of a job. Resigned, he settles in for a rough night.

By the time morning comes, Eliot can tell it's going to be one of his worst days in a while. He tossed and turned all night, not even getting his customary ninety consecutive minutes of sleep because the pain in his neck and leg kept waking him up, when it wasn't his regular nightmares. He gave up on sleeping altogether sometime before dawn, but he's still lying in his bed tired and sore by nine a.m., unable to find the energy to get up.

He finally drags himself out of bed to get some painkillers when the ache outweighs his desire to stay still. He normally keeps a bottle of Percocet in his nightstand for exactly this kind of situation, but he ran out some time ago and forgot to get more. Regularly staying over at the apartment near the office instead of his own place messes with his brain more than he'd like to admit.

His left leg gives out under him when he tries to put weight on it, as he suspected it would, so he limps his way to the kitchen by leaning heavily on the furniture. He locates the wheeled stool he keeps by the kitchen island and rolls it over to the low cabinet that served as his pharmacy.

Before he even starts reading the labels on the carefully arranged pill bottles, he realizes that he's screwed. “Dammit,” he murmurs. Between moving things to his new apartment and preparing a go-bag to leave at the office, he has depleted his stash of tablets and has somehow forgotten to get more.

The move and major changes in his work routine have truly wreaked havoc on his organization abilities, because this is something that never happens. He has completely run out of anything stronger than Tylenol. All his daily medications are here, or he would have noticed the problem last night, but there are none of the three different opioids he has a prescription for.

Eliot groans. The wrongness makes his skin crawl, which only adds to the barely manageable pain. He tries to open the bottle of Tylenol, which would be better than nothing, but his hand doesn't obey and he only manages to fumble with the child-proof cap, his fingers slow and clumsy. Frustrated, he throws it across the room. Even banging on the wall doesn't open the little bottle, which falls to the floor somewhere beside the fridge.

Eliot lets himself slide off the stool before he falls over, and curls up against the cabinet where it meets the wall. The position is terrible for his neck, but it's all he can do not to bang his head against the wall at this point. Although it was a trigger for the meltdown, the pain is actually grounding him now, enough to keep him from hurting himself further.

After a few minutes of running his hands through his hair and trying to breathe, he manages to stand back up on one leg and find the stool that rolled away from him. He pointedly doesn't try to retrieve the Tylenol, or think about the fact that he needs to go out and get his prescription filled−and that he has no idea how he's going to manage that. He gets himself a glass of water instead and swallows the rest of his medications.

Eliot is no stranger to pain, or even to days like this one where he's hurting for no good reason but the random protestations of his abused body. This is the first real moment of rest the team has had since getting together months ago, and close to the longest he has gone without a real flare-up in the four years since his neck injury, so he has been expecting it. His body is usually well-behaved that way, only giving up on him when he lets go of his tight control. The problem is that when it crashes, it's a long way down.

And having a small meltdown on his kitchen floor before he's even dressed is not helping.

By the time he has put on sweat pants and a tee-shirt, foregoing taking a shower for now, Eliot is exhausted. He gives up the pretense that he can function even halfway normally today and takes his neck and leg braces and the forearm crutches out of his bedroom closet. He typically prefers a cane for support, but his leg is not up to taking even that much weight right now.

The neck brace helps to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders, though it does nothing for the nerve pain that wracks his body. Eliot retrieves the bottle of Tylenol from his kitchen floor and takes the highest possible dose that won't mess with his liver, but it's simply not going to cut it.

He spends almost two hours sitting on his couch trying to motivate himself and not moan in pain, before he's ready to go out to the pharmacy three blocks away.

He doesn't leave his apartment on really bad days if he can help it. Even if the pain had not been this bad, the crutches preclude him from using his white cane, which makes the trip hazardous at best. The way he's already overloaded, chances are it's going to go pear-shaped, but it's a choice between that and a day or more of excruciating pain.

It doesn't even cross his mind to call someone for help. The crew knows nothing about his private life, and he'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much. Especially this part of it. He has long learned to handle himself on his own, even on the worst days, and he's not going to start breaking that habit just yet.

Eliot makes it to the pharmacy without accident, though it takes him half an hour and half a dozen pauses just to keep his breathing under control. He gets his prescription for Percocet filled and finds a bench outside where he can sit to rest and dry swallow a pill.

It's when he stands back up that everything goes to hell. His uncooperative left hand refuses to grasp the crutch properly and it snatches onto the curb, causing Eliot to crash head-first unto the sidewalk's asphalt, unable to break his fall with his arms tangled in the crutches. He can do little more than curl up on himself and pray he's not going to get trampled on as he tries to ride out the wave of unbearable pain.

“Sir, are you alright?” The question, repeated multiple times, sounds very far away. Eliot feels the pain start to recede and concentrate in smaller parts of his body, radiating out of his neck and face and shoulder and leg. It's still bad, but at least he can move again.

Pushing himself up, he has about a second to take stock of his hurts before hands are on him and he freezes. “Please don't touch me,” he says, surprised himself that the words come out of his mouth in any kind of articulate fashion. The hands move away, though he can feel them hovering nearby. “Are you alright?” the voice is saying again.

“I'm fine.” He's not, but that's nobody's business but his own. He has taken falls and beatings far worse than this. He doesn't have a concussion, and he feels mostly coherent. Anything else he can handle on his own.

“Do you need to call 911?”

“I'm fine,” Eliot repeats, his brain stuck on the phrase, but it doesn't matter because it seems like an appropriate response.

He needs to get up. He feels around for the crutches and grabs them both with his right hand. Getting back up from the floor on one leg is something he practiced early on in therapy and the move is familiar enough that it doesn't take much thought. His sore right shoulder seems to hold up when he leans on the crutch, confirming that it's only bruised.

“You're bleeding.”

Eliot brings his hand to his face. There is indeed stickiness and his cheek burns, but it doesn't feel too bad. “I'm fine,” he defaults to again, incapable of thinking of anything else to say.

He transfers the second crutch to his left hand, hoping he won't smear blood everywhere, and makes sure his hand is grasping the crutch properly this time. He takes a step forward, trying to push past whoever is still hovering to get oriented again. He's lost his sense of direction in the confusion.

He runs into someone's arm instead and brusquely pulls back. “Please let me go,” he manages, trying to get his concentration on finding which way he needs to go rather than on the pain or the way the touch makes his skin crawl.

The person in front of him immediately steps back. Eliot grunts something he hopes sounds like a thank you, acutely aware of the picture he must be presenting. He takes a somewhat shaky breath and listens to the cars passing behind his back. This is a one way street, which means he needs to go to his left against the flow, to the intersection leading to his place. His mind is calming down enough now to start echolocating again, and he can hear the tall buildings in front of him, but he still uses his crutch to check where the curb is, not trusting himself not to miss it.

He can feel stares following him, but he does his best to ignore them. The way back to his apartment is slow-going, both because he's too sore to move quickly and because he feels less than confident in his ability to hear obstacles in time, but he makes it without running into anything or falling over again.

The painkillers are starting to take effect now, and Eliot feels more coherent by the time he carefully sits down on the wheeled stool he left by the entrance and leans the crutches on the wall. He still takes the time to get his breathing back under control before rolling into the bathroom to check the wound on his face.

Once he has managed to get his hair unstuck from the blood, the scrapes don't seem very bad. They didn't bleed much, and it doesn't feel like any blood has gotten onto his neck brace or his clothes. Despite the fact that the brace is the reason he wasn't been able to minimize the impact of his fall on his face, Eliot is rather glad it prevented his neck from twisting. It already hurts more than enough.

Eliot cleans the scrapes carefully, checking that there isn't any gravel left in them, and goes to get an ice pack from his freezer. The wounds are too tender to stand the cold for now, but he presses it to his rapidly bruising shoulder and opens the fridge.

He's exhausted and wants nothing more than to lay down, but he has yet to eat anything today, despite having taken multiple medications that need to be accompanied with food. After some fumbling around because his tired brain can't remember which shelf he put it on, he finds the bowl of leftover salad from yesterday.

He doesn't bother with getting himself a plate and just grabs a fork and peels the plastic wrap from the bowl. With it cradled in his lap and the bag from the pharmacy in hand, he rolls the stool over to his bedroom. At this point, Eliot reasons, he might as well just give the day up as a bad job and go back to bed.

He manages to eat about half of the left over salad, propped up on pillows. He doesn't have the energy to get back up to put the bowl away, so he just leaves it on the floor by the bed, hoping he will be in a state to remember later. With a sigh, he plugs in the heating blanket and puts it over his body, hoping the warmth will help him relax a little, and removes his neck and leg braces. Neither is very comfortable to sleep in.

Although the Percocet has fully taken effect and is making his head slightly fuzzy, it has not done much more than take the edge off the pain. It's enough that Eliot can lie still without feeling like he's on fire, but not enough for him to fall asleep easily, although he is exhausted. He ends up switching on the CD player on his bedside table and listening to an audiobook, although he keeps having to rewind it because he zoned out.

He finds himself thinking about the crew. They have been together for a few months now, and for the most part it has been a truly good ride, but Eliot never planned to work with anyone else for long periods of time again. It's not that he hasn't had offers, he has plenty of former clients who would have taken him on full time as a retrieval specialist or as a bodyguard, and even a few other crews he could have joined. It's just that the last time he had a boss didn't end well.

He tries to shake his head to get rid of the sudden memories and groans when his neck protests against the move. Damien Moreau is the last person he wants to think about right now.

But Nate is his boss, now. They haven't formalized it that way, though Nate owns Leverage Consulting and signs their paychecks, but he is the one calling the shots, and Eliot has not had a boss since Moreau.

He doesn't think the crew knows much about his past, even Nate. He's not hiding it from them, and it's probably not that hard to find out with the right connections, but they haven't called him out on it yet. He kind of hopes they never look.

His legs spasms painfully, and Eliot winces. He's not hiding the state of his health from them, either. It just hasn't come up. He has not had a real flare-up in months, nothing more than a limp in the morning or the near-constant ache in his neck, so he's had no reason to tell the crew.

Except he's lucky this time, that this has happened on a day off and not in the middle of a job. Because on days like this, where he manages to fall on his face in the middle of the street three blocks from his place, he's clearly not going to beat the shit out of anyone but himself.

How long until this happens at a time when the others need him? His role in most of Nate's plans is to secure their exit, and in a job like theirs, it's probably the most important part. He's the one who makes sure they all get out alive and don't get caught. What happens the day he can't do that, because he can't even walk?

Damn, he knew this crew thing wasn't a good idea. He's just not reliable enough.

Eliot sighs. He'll need to do something about that, eventually, but he also know not to trust himself to make any decisions on a day like today.

In the end, he drifts off without noticing.

Eliot doesn't rise again until the next morning, except to pee and take more painkillers and some anti-inflammatory tablets with the rest of the salad for dinner. With the help of the Percocet, he actually manages to sleep more than he lays awake, though never for long at a time.

Eliot rarely sleeps more than a couple of hours without having nightmares, which is why he has trained his body to wake up after ninety minutes, before they can start, and repeat the cycle several times a night. This time he is too tired and sore for his internal clock to work properly, so he wakes up screaming twice during the night.

Still, it's a better night than he hoped for.

The pain in his neck is not as bad as yesterday morning, and his leg has mostly stopped spasming, which is also good news. It's not quite enough for him to be able to walk, but it's still better.

He goes through his stretching routine, modified to accommodate his current state−mostly he skips the part that has to be done standing up−then goes to shower. His phone starts ringing when he has just finished dressing and is struggling to get his neck brace on.

“Hello?” he says, putting the phone on speaker so he can keep his hands free.

“Eliot, it's Walt,” the voice of his friend and mentor says.

Walt is the owner of the martial arts studio Eliot has been going to since he moved here, and where he has been teaching a couple of classes a week for the past three years.

“Hey Walt, what's up?” Eliot asks, tightening the brace's Velcro straps.

“Could you cover Frankie's class today? He's out on the east coast for the semi-finals and I don't have a replacement,” Walt says.

“Damn, I was gonna call to tell you I don't think I can do my class today, let alone Frankie's,” Eliot says.

“What's going on? Out on a job again?”

“No, just a bad day. Are you sure you don't have anyone to cover the classes?”

“No, I have my own classes at the same time and Elisa's on vacation in Europe. If you can't come 'round, I'll have to cancel both classes.”

“Shit,” Eliot curses. Some of the kids in his class live for the few hours a week they can let go of their problems and fight. He's missed classes while on jobs or injured before, but Walt almost always found a way to replace him, even at the last minute. He doesn't want to let the kids down.

“Listen,” Walt says. “I don't want to push you if you really can't, but Corey will be here. He can handle the demos and most of the one-to-one stuff. He could almost do the class himself, really, I just can't have him on his own with the kids.”

Corey is Eliot's most promising student, a seventeen-year-old living in a group home who has taken to jiu-jitsu like a fish to water. He is working toward his teaching certification, but he can't be responsible for a class of children until he turns eighteen.

“Alright,” Eliot says. “I'll be there.”

“Good. By the way, I got a call from a friend of yours yesterday. Said you gave him our card. Name's Robert Perry?”

“I'm glad he called,” Eliot smiles. “I wasn't sure he would.”

“Yes, he's coming round next week to observe a few classes, and we'll see how it goes. I also heard that the rehab center received a really large donation recently. Was that you?”

Eliot nearly curses. Walt doesn't know much about his job, though they're close enough that he knows it's not entirely legal. Eliot hasn't quite managed to curb Walt's suspicion that the mysterious influx of money that allowed him to save the studio a few months ago had something to do with him.

“Not my money, no. Just righting a wrong,” he decides for a half-truth.

“Right,” Walt says, doubtful. “See you at two then.”

Eliot hangs up and comes out of the bathroom, rolling on his wheeled stool. He makes a quick call to his car service to have someone pick him up at one, then heads to the kitchen. Teaching two classes back to back in the state he's in is going to be exhausting, but maybe having something to do will take his mind off the pain.

Eliot spends the rest of the morning slowly working his body into submission with yoga and as much Tai-Chi as he can do sitting down. That and the painkillers he is still taking mean he feels almost human by the time he starts cooking himself lunch. His hand is also working much better than yesterday, so he takes advantage of that and prepares a large casserole to have portions he can freeze for later.

“Eliot! Man, you okay?” Corey welcomes Eliot enthusiastically when he hobbles into the studio, leaning heavily on his crutches. Corey has seen him limping or using a cane before, but he must look particularly bad today, between the neck brace and his leg dragging so much he barely puts any weight on it.

“I'm good,” he says.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing, it's just a flare-up,” Eliot frowns.

“No, I mean to your face,” Corey explains.

Eliot realizes he'd forgotten about the abrasions on his cheek. He doesn't even think about lying. “I slipped. Bad grip on the crutch,” he says.

“That sucks,” Corey says matter-of-factly. “Okay, class is in half an hour. Go sit down, I'll tell Walt you're here.”

Eliot smiles at the bluntness. It's not that Corey lacks empathy, but there is a reason Eliot is willing to come to the studio even during bad days. Not one is going to judge him for not being at his best or needing accommodations here. Walt has been his teacher since rehab, back when he was still struggling to push his own wheelchair. The studio specializes in teaching martial arts to disabled people, and everyone of the students and the staff knows pain and bad days and limitations intimately.

Eliot slowly walks down the corridor to the tatami-floored dojo at the end. The studio has a second dojo with a beautiful traditional wooden floor, but they only hold the Tai-Chi and adult Kung-Fu classes there. Eliot's class is made up of teenagers who tend to like roughing it up, so the tatamis are much safer.

Eliot decides to obey Corey and goes to sit down in one of the few chairs by the window, leaning his crutches on the windowsill beside him. He doesn't quite have the energy to go change into his kimono, but it's not like he is going to move much anyway. He can make an exception. In here, people's health takes precedence over symbols and discipline.

“Eliot,” Walt says, sliding the doors all the way open.

Eliot realizes that Walt has been watching him since he came in. He curses himself for his inattention. This could get him killed one day.

“Hey Walt,” he says without letting his surprise show on his face.

“Are you sure you can handle two classes in a row? You look like you're going to fall over.”

Eliot laughs. “Don't worry, I won't pass out in front of the students. Corey will do most of the work, right?”

“That's right!” Corey says, coming up behind Walt. His slightly uneven gait is easier to pick out that Walt's dancer-like grace.

“You can stick around for Frankie's class too, Corey?” Walt asks.

“Sure thing! I don't have to be back until dinner time.”

“It's adult Tai-Chi, right?” Eliot asks.

“Yes. You should only have three students today, so it will be fairly light work,” Walt says. “But I'll need this dojo for the six to nine-year-olds' class so you'll have to take the other one. Sorry about that.”

“Nah, it's fine, I can move,” Eliot says. “Just tell me who to expect so I can plan ahead a bit.”

Walter comes closer to give him a rundown of Frankie's students and their specific needs. No class in the studio is larger than six students, for practical reasons: beside the small size of the dojo, the participants all need various levels of accommodation and one-to-one teaching. Both Walt and Elisa, who are full time martial arts teachers, also give private sessions and work in rehab centers, which is how Eliot first met Walt.

Before he goes back to his office to get ready for his own class, Walt grips Eliot's shoulder. “You know not to overdo it, right?” he says, concern in his voice.

Eliot gently shrugs his hand off and nods as much as his neck brace allows. “Yeah. I'll be fine,” he says.

Walt hums his agreement and leaves him alone with Corey, who has used the time to start warming-up.

“So, Corey,” Eliot says. “How's the new prosthetic coming along?”

“Getting fitted tomorrow!” Corey exclaims enthusiastically. “I still can't believe it! Thank you so much again for helping me get the grant. It's gonna be so much better!”

Eliot smiles at the young man's obvious happiness. “You don't need to thank me every time, you know,” he says. “But you're welcome.”

He is truly glad that things are looking up for Corey. As a ward of the state, the kid has not had it easy, especially since he lost his right leg in a car accident, but he is going places. Eliot's small involvement has been helping the kid write a grant application to a local foundation helping disabled people to get custom-built mobility aids. Corey is not aware that his grant money comes from the sizable anonymous donation Eliot made to the foundation, but Eliot wants to keep it that way. The dozen or so donations that he's made to diverse organisms have barely made a dent in his payout from the Dubenich job.

“Hi Eliot!” a young, enthusiastic voice comes from the entrance to the dojo. Then, “What's wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with Eliot?” says another voice, this time in a whisper. Eliot recognizes it as Ash, his fourteen-years-old blind student.

“He's on crutches,” thirteen-years-old Laura, one of his other students, whispers back.

“And he has a neck brace,” her fifteen-years-old brother Gaetan, the owner of the first voice, completes. “Hi Corey!” he adds after a beat.

None of them are very discrete, but to their credits they keep their voices low, trying to be polite.

“Come over here,” Eliot tells them. “Is Tali here too?”

“Here,” Tali says, barely above a murmur. She's the youngest of the class at twelve years old, and she's only verbal some of the time.

The four students, plus Corey who completes the class, assemble around him.

“Good,” Eliot says. “Now, you all know I'm blind. I also have some troubles with my spine, so on a bad day like today my leg won't work properly, and my neck hurts. There's nothing wrong, it just means I need to rest, so you don't need to worry. But I can't really stand, so Corey will be doing most of the teaching today. That okay with you?”

The chorus of yes has Eliot smile. It has taken him a while to get all of the kids to stop nodding or shaking their heads and remember to speak up. Their concern is obvious in their agitation, but he knows they won't make it harder for Corey or him than it needs to be. It's a good thing, because Eliot's leg is spasming again and he's got hours to go until he can take more painkillers.

“Alright, then go change,” he says. Feeling Ash hovering instead of going to the changing rooms with the others, he asks, “Ash, you want to take a look?”

“Can I?” the teenager asks.

“Gimme your hand,” Eliot says, holding out his arm.

Ash is functionally blind, but he can see movement well enough not to fumble to take his hand. Eliot guides the boy's fingers to his neck brace, and Ash very carefully traces the edges. Next, Eliot picks up one of his crutches and places it in Ash's hand. “See?” he says, “this is just to help me walk. There's no need for concern.”

“Thanks,” Ash says. “I'll go now,” he adds with some embarrassment.

Eliot hears him follow his guide dog out of the dojo. He turns to Corey to quickly go over what he wants to do with the kids today, thankful that he had his lesson plan ready long before this flare-up. He can't concentrate for long enough to do anything productive on days like this.

Eliot stands painfully before the children come back out of the changing room. He needs to stretch his leg if he wants the spasms to calm down, but he doesn't need them to see him struggle. Corey's instinctive move to help is bad enough.

“I'm good,” he says before Corey can get close to him. He doesn't think he can stand someone else touching him right now. It was hard enough to let both Walt and Ash approach him.

“Alright,” he says when the four teenagers have filed back into the dojo. He's still standing, pacing the front of the room very slowly on his crutches. “To your spots and start warming up. You all know the drill, so just follow Corey's lead.”

Eliot is back in his seat, exhausted, by the time they are done warming up. He shifts to find the most comfortable position and settles in. “As usual, girls on the left and boys on the right, please,” he says. “Corey, you show them the move?”

“Yes, sir,” Corey says. “Ash, come over here.”

Eliot listens carefully as Corey demonstrates the high kick and walks Ash through the parade. He's found this to be the way that works best, so that Ash can see the move first hand and the others can watch and reproduce it.

Eliot used to have each student try their moves on him, but now he only needs to listen to check if they are doing it right. It has taken him a while to get to this point, but it's very useful on a day like today.

“Tali, don't try to extend your elbow all the way, you're gonna hurt yourself,” he says as the girls start their mock-fight. “Gaetan, you're overbalancing with that kick, try with your leg further back.”

Corey does most of the actual work, correcting their postures, and Eliot can see once more how good he is at adapting them to each kid's specific abilities. He'll make a great teacher, once he's grown out of his youthful eagerness. He would also do great in college, but when you're not lucky enough to have parents with money for tuition, dedicating your life to martial arts is better than going with the gangs.

The other kids are great too. They come in with an open mind rarely seen in typical children their age, never battling an eyelid at obeying a blind teacher or working with other disabled people. They're all lucid about their prospects, about how hard it is to survive in a society that revolves entirely around able people, but they still enjoy life to its fullest. They've probably taught Eliot more than he's taught them, and he loves them for that.

For that and for those moments when something clicks and suddenly everything becomes perfect. “That's it, Tali, that's what I'm talking about!” Eliot exclaims when the girl finally manages a move that has resisted her for several weeks, a wide smile on his face that makes the pain quiet down just a little.

“Yes!” Laura shouts from where she's just been floored, happy for her friend. Tali claps her hands cheerfully together, then against her hips. Eliot almost unconsciously mirrors her happy flapping and he can't help thinking of Parker. “Wanna try again?” he asks.

The girls get back up and start again, a little closer together and a little more upbeat. Eliot smiles with them, despite the renewed cramps in his leg.

The adult class is less rambunctious, but Corey does fine with them as well. Eliot doesn't know the three students well enough to make up a lesson plan on the spot, so he works with them to figure out where they're at in the Tai-Chi forms and has them revise simple moves. They're careful with him, almost too much, but none of them try to refuse his authority as a teacher on the ground of his current inability to move, so it goes well enough.

When he finally gets back to his place, Eliot can tell he's been up for at least an hour too long. It takes him far more time than it should to get out of the car and get situated on his crutches, to the point that the driver comes out and hovers until he's safely inside his apartment.

Eliot doesn't bother pretending he's going to do anything else today. He only removes his shoes to take off the leg brace and plops down onto his bed, dry-swallowing a painkiller.

He somehow manages to sleep until dinner time, though it doesn't quite clear up the pain haze in his brain. This is one of those days where going out of his apartment for a whole four hours and doing nothing but sit is overdoing it, and the only thing Eliot can do it curse his traitor body.

He spends the evening lying on his couch, just so he can say he's not in bed, trying to work up enough appetite for the bowl of chili he finds in his freezer. There's nothing to do but ride it out, wait until the pain washes over and he can function again, but he really hates it.

Nate calls him two days later.

“We've got a new client. American couple was scammed out of 120 grands by a Serbian adoption ring.”

“Nate, we agreed not to take a new job until you're healed,” Eliot says, annoyed.

“Yeah, well, I'm fine,” Nate answers, unconcerned.

“You were shot six days ago! You can't be fine!”

“You said it yourself, it was a flesh wound. Besides, this job is going to take some preparation, it's not like we're gonna fly out tomorrow.”

“You seriously want us to fly out to Serbia?” Eliot asks incredulously.

“That's where the adoption scam is, yes,” Nate says. “You coming or not?”

“Fine,” Eliot grunts. “When?”

“Briefing's in three hours.”

Eliot hangs up and sighs. He had hoped for a little more time to recover before having to meet the crew again, but he is not going to get it.

His flare-up has receded enough that he can walk with just a cane for support, just over four days after it started. But he's exhausted and definitely not up to the questions the others are sure to have, if they see him limping.

And Serbia does not hold his best memories.

Shaking his head, Eliot starts preparing a bag of things he will need to bring to his second apartment. If they are back in business, that's where he'll need to be. He calls his car service to pick him up as soon as possible, and spends the half-hour he waits for the driver cleaning his kitchen.

Nate is the only one in the office when Eliot gets out of the elevator. This is exactly what he wanted. Nate is typing at his computer at his desk, probably already nursing a glass of whiskey, and Eliot knows Nate can't see him limp down the corridor from where he's sitting. Eliot drops his bag in his office and leans his walking cane out of sight by his desk, folding up the white cane into his pocket. He walks to the break room as close to normally as he can, carefully putting his weight on his left leg, aided by the full leg brace that barely fits under his pant leg. It's not ideal, but it works, and as far as Eliot is concerned it beats explaining the limp.

He takes one of his ice packs from the freezer for his still scabbed cheek and heads to the conference room. It will be even easier if he's already sitting when the others come in.

They all sound more relaxed than they've been in weeks when they file in, even Nate who barely favors his right shoulder. Eliot makes his objection to this job clear once more, in front of the whole crew this time because he knows Nate won't even listen to them, but he's immediately outnumbered. Of course a job involving rescuing a child would have them all on point. None of them _know_ what the world of child-trafficking looks like.

Eliot briefly sighs, remembering another time in Belgrade, years ago.  The faces of children used, weary beyond their age, passed between hands like objects.  Working side by side with Damien Moreau to bring down the ring−and what that led him to.

No, Serbia doesn't hold good memories.

“What happened to you?” Nate asks when Eliot turns his head toward him, reveling the ice pack he's holding to his face.

Eliot barely hesitates before lying.

“Well...how was I supposed to know it was a lesbian bar?”

He'll tell the crew, someday, about the chronic pain and the flare-ups and the rest. When it becomes necessary. But not today.

Today, they have an orphan to save.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [emma-arthur](https://emma-arthur.tumblr.com/) (multi-fandom blog)


End file.
